Western Center to Diamond Valley Lake. I had no idea how this would be—I used to go fishing at the lake when my fishing-crazy brother, Lewis, lived in town. I recalled nothing but a long, curvy rise from the Western Center up to the lake. The prospect of a workout and the view ought to be rewarding. I did once circle the entire lake on an earlier occasion—again, with John Carter—which took us hours to do some twenty-one miles or so. Spring would be best for this as wildflowers and birdlife are in profusion. Somehow, I talked another bicycling enthusiast, Brian Bailey, into a lake circuit.

We scheduled our ride on the day before Thanksgiving. It was perfect weather for bicycling and got no warmer than seventy degrees. Once, along the East Dam, I noticed a large bird of prey perched on a pole on my right. As I approached and examined it closely, I think that it was an osprey, curved beak, white and black striated tail feathers. It cried five times, then flew away, a bluegill clearly in its talons.

I was able to keep up with Brian by encouraging him to talk, which he did at length and for nearly two hours. The fact of the matter is that in order to do so, he necessarily slowed down. So, I could eventually pedal in at the end with head held high. In fact, I zoomed down the hill toward the Western Center, near where we had parked, in the lead. By Brian’s calculations, it took us less than two hours to cover the twenty-one odd miles—no more than 1:59:00, in fact. It depends upon you include the ride up from the parking lot at the Western Center. If not, then it was a 1:45:00 ride. One highlight was when we saw a hawk alight upon our arrival around a curve. We both stopped talking and examined it as it flew away. “Black shouldered hawk!” Brian exclaimed. I had never heard of one. I thought that red-tailed hawks were all that we had in the valley.

Although it is true that my legs were sore at the end, I suffered no ill effects from the ride, nor did my bike when I woke up on Thanksgiving Day. In fact, I did better as a sixty year old man than I had when I was in my thirties, which was the last time I had done it with John Carter.

Other possibilities: descent from Idyllwild. This is not for the faint of heart! My friend John Carter and I did it many years ago by driving up the hill with our bikes in the back of the truck. His wife Sue was in Idyllwild and had agreed to drive the truck back. Although it was a warm (ninety degrees) day, we didn’t mind, as the wind of our descent down the 74 Highway continually refreshed us. If I recall correctly, it was about forty-five minutes in total from the outskirts of the town to the outskirts of Hemet. Like some more experienced bicyclists that I had seen before, John’s helmet had a little, rear-view mirror affixed with which presumably he could view cars as they approached behind him. I prefer not to see cars that are about to mow me down. As it happened, however, we both made it safely down.

For the REALLY determined bicycle enthusiast, I recall that a man used to bicycle up Lamb Canyon to Beaumont—then down on a regular basis. I don’t hear of him doing so anymore, nor have I seen anyone whenever I have to leave town that way. But it sounds fun!

Recently, the State of California decided—against the protests of the Hemet City Council—to ‘improve’ Highway 74 (Florida Ave.) by installing cement islands–center dividers—in the middle of the road. The State apparently believes that since it is the proper custodian of highways in the state, that it may do whatever it wishes to the travel arteries where people live and breathe and commute. This brought traffic briefly to our valley —something with which we are unaccustomed. It also brought construction on Florida Ave and we valley denizens had to choose between waiting in traffic or else using side residential streets to find our way home, tired after an already long commute. However, there are now signs strewing the length of the project advertising in beautiful black and orange the following notice: One is a diamond shape with the profile of a bicycle, below it a smaller square entitled “Share the Road”. On the right side of both directions of traffic, from the intersection of Florida and Sanderson, all the way to Florida and the Ramona Expressway are stencils of bicycles every 100’ or so. Presumably, we bicyclists are encouraged by the State to use up the right lanes on both sides of the street to make our way toward whatever errand we have in mind. However, no bicyclists are there—not now, not before—maybe never, because . . . we aren’t stupid.

-Peter Putnam

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Or, “I found my thrill, on Mayberry Hill . . .”

Mayberry Hill is a good challenge for someone who wishes for a challenge—a challenge to your cardio-pulmonary level, to your inclination for bicycling, to your desire to speed down after a grueling ascent. At the top are spectacular views of the valley looking west. Directly below are orange groves. Around you are beautiful houses done in individualized architectural styles.

Ramona Expressway starts far away in Perris, but dead ends in Highway 74. I join it after a twelve-minute ride from my house. I find after turning left on the 74 a shrine to a dead man, just before I hit Seventh St. I stop. It is to ‘Bobby’. There is an oval shaped ring formed by half logs arranged in the ground. From the ring a cross rises, topped with a top hat. Many decorations accompany the shrine: a photograph of Bobby, and many ‘Happy Father’s Day’ wishes. Below the photo are white, Baroque style statues of angels and of Jesus. After I continue right onto Fairview, I ride for a minute and reach Mayberry.

Mayberry Hill looms up to the east and dominates the horizon. The incline increases as houses increase in beauty. Just as the challenge to those with fear of heights not to look down from a height, I prefer not to look up as I pedal up this hill—it is too intimidating. When you reach the aqueduct, you are about half way there. As I stand up and pedal, I see the orange grove on my right, a cinder block wall in ruins. Oddly, the split rail fence is intact! Masks lie discarded on the ground, like everywhere else—O, would that we could discard the governor’s edicts as well!

The first rest is about five minutes up. Upon accessing the Heights, there is a magnificent view from Rio Vista (Spanish for ‘River View’, except there is no river to see, unless I am mistaken. There is a San Jacinto River, and it does flow, albeit in a predetermined way, the residents of the valley presumably long ago having tired of unpredictable flooding); the second rise is another four minutes.

Now return! Nothing but wind in my hair on the winding road down. How fast? I don’t know exactly. I would guess thirty miles an hour. This may not seem like a lot, but try crashing at half that speed! Altogether from Fairview St. to the top: about twelve minutes; the sailing down Mayberry: about six minutes from the top all the way down. Total time from home and back: about seventy minutes. Now the good news: since I first wrote this, I improved my time to fifty-nine minutes!

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I’m goin’ to some place, I’ve never been before

I’m gonna leave this city, got to get away

I’m gonna leave this city, got to get away

All this fussin’ and fightin’ man, you know I sure can’t stay”, by Canned Heat

If you really want to get an ‘out in the country’ feeling, try this one!

I drive to Gibbel Rd. Via State St until it crosses Domenigoni Parkway—about seven miles from my house. In order to get my full forty-five-minute workout, I find that it is best to park in the dirt next to the little fenced in water building, or whatever it is, and begin there. It is seventy-five degrees at 8:45 AM in October, because in this valley, summer is stubborn and steadfast.

Just look east and psyche yourself out: you can and will get up this rise! It

isn’t anywhere near as hard as Mayberry Hill, Pachea Trail or Vista Del Valle. As you leave the trailer park behind, beautiful boulders predominate on your left. The large white flowers that grow in clumps are called Jimson Weed—poisonous! I see vacant areas where lots could contain a new house and wonder what it would be like to live there. On the right is a vast field, filled with sand through which grow stands of pink verbena. It took me ten minutes today to reach the first rise. As you make it to the top, the fun really begins, because a downhill begins and for once you begin coasting down.

For the next six minutes, enjoy the olive trees, the pepper trees and the valley live oaks lining the road. The California Family Life Center is there, a home for institutionalized juveniles. Soon enough, however, it is time to pay the piper—to stand up and pedal again. Mercifully, it is just four minutes before reaching a level area hidden in the middle of oaks and boulders. Today (10-29-20) I saw a doe trot by in the bushes to my right, in a dark glade. A California quail crosses in front of me, then another, but I know there are more: sure enough, one or two more hesitate as I labor my way up; most give up and fly to their right and away from me and the road; turkey vultures today, circling: I smell something dead This ends too soon and—stand up and pedal! You might think that a reprieve has arrived, but you would be wrong: ANOTHER ascent immediately confronts you—steep and exposed to sunlight. At the top are signs welcoming you to ‘Mission Heights’ and it brags further about gardening and fresh air. Keep your eyes on the lots at the top and you will soon be rewarded with a view of Diamond Valley Lake. At the top, there is an estate with rusting vintage cars parked off to my left, perhaps from the 1930s? Nearby horses look at me. Further, dogs bark and run alongside the fence that encloses them to let me know that things would not seem so well for me, if not for the fence.

The entire return trip passes swiftly because I also pass swiftly—that is, it is all downhill! How fast? Hard to tell—I doubt that I get up above thirty miles per hour, but when you are sitting on a bicycle seat on a two-wheeler, with all the wind zapping me in the face, my eyes start to water and, if not for my Maui Jim sunglasses, I would have a hard time seeing at all! Now then, go only as fast as you feel comfortable. I have never crashed at high speed, and I never wish to. It just may be that caution in the form of hand brakes is what has kept me from that painful hour. Just as I approach the last habited place before the crossroads of State St. And Domenigoni, a coyote ahead of me runs across the road and hides itself in the brush just above the park. Although I gaze as much as safely as possible as I pass by, I cannot see him.

Total today from the trailer park to the ‘No Trespassing’ Sign (Violators Will be Prosecuted) and back: forty-three minutes (today [10-5-20], however, it was 38:33!)

-Peter Putnam

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As I do not wish to hazard the automobile traffic between my garage in San Jacinto and the route up to Simpson Park, I load my bike in the Tundra and take Columbia St. almost until it ends at Stetson Ave. I take out the bike, cross Stetson and continue until I hit Crest, one of the lovelier streets in Hemet. It includes one of the largest live oaks in the valley in someone’s front yard. Woodpeckers jostle above with scrub jays and hawks.

Upon turning right at the sign (Simpson Park and arrow pointing), I speed down briefly. Then, housing tracts disappear, individual architecture is noticeable, roads are actually well paved. This first rise requires standing and pedaling above and past some beautiful houses for about seven minutes. There is now a three-minute happy time of level road, and I pedal in eighth gear. Just before Vista del Valle turns to the left, a cross stands, marking Brian’s passing. Brian lived forty-five years (from 1-22-75 to May 25, 2020, says the marker) and a little bicycle is set there to commemorate his life, also a sign “We Love You; We Miss You”, and now a large photograph. I don’t know the story otherwise. Offhand, I’d say that he died there on his bicycle.

If you are in any kind of shape to appreciate the lovely surroundings, despite the torture that you endured to get there, notice flocks of California quail; notice the foliage: cape blue plumbago, lantana, and bougainvillea. After this it is time to stand and pedal for about five minutes, before a brief, fairly level ride. Now the worst part: stand and pedal for about five minutes after I am already tired. Did I mention not to do this when the temperature is above eighty degrees? Although I have done this ride for about twenty-six years, even I had to get off once and walk the bike the last few feet (I think it was when I was out of shape and weighed perhaps twenty-five pounds more than I do now). I count twenty-two minutes from the beginning of the ascent to the top.

At the top about eight to ten cars usually are parked. From what I have seen their owners are either walking or mountain biking above the gate. The gate to Simpson Park is locked, perhaps rightly so, due to fire hazard. Beyond each house on my left and right is nothing but dry sage brush and weeds, which would go up quite quickly should anyone behave carelessly. I have pedaled beyond the gate in the past and it is a worthy challenge, including a hill that required my ‘tacking’ (for lack of a better term, I employ the nautical skill of moving left and right, rather than straight forward in order to make progress). In total, as I recall, it is another fifteen minutes from the gate to Simpson Park and the end of the road. Total from bottom to top is around thirty-five minutes of mostly climbing.

More enjoyable, of course, is sailing down! Sailing down from the gate takes about four minutes—depending, of course, on your daring-do! Today a car ahead of me on the 10-mph section was so slow that I began tailgating. Eventually, a man’s arm emerged from the driver’s window and waved me forward. I passed up the car and kept ahead until the last downhill part, when he showed me what a black Porsche SUV can do, should it choose to. I didn’t even know that Porsche’s came in SUV models! A large hawk alights on a telephone pole, as I cruise back to my truck. Probably NOT a red tail.

-Peter Putnam

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To get to Pachea Trail, I cheat: I toss my bike into the back of the Tundra and drive to the end of San Jacinto Ave. From there it is a short ride to Pachea Trail, where San Jacinto dead-ends. First is to cross Stetson Ave., then follow the street DOWN! It’s all fun and games at first, as I zoom by (by the by: this is much more fun than the other kind of ‘zooming’ going on nowadays). However, soon I reach and turn right on Legend Lane and the ‘fun’ begins.

It is mostly a ‘stand up and pedal with all your might’ ride, with almost no break at all, all the way to the top. You are dimly aware of the flocks of California quail, that the houses and the landscaping and the views are all very good, but that does not mean that you enjoy any of it, because pedaling requires all your energy and attention. Stage One is a straight up rise of about seven minutes, before turning left into Stage Two, a twisting, turning stand up and pedal continuation, before emerging at a slight leveling out of maybe thirty seconds, before beginning the last Stage Three, another stand up and pedal all the way to the end of the pavement, which ends at a dead end, overlooking the valley, as fenced dogs along the way bark at you excitedly. Today, a couple of beautiful Akitas accosted me—from behind a fence, having presumably little else to do all day. It’s always and briefly fun, yet potentially dangerous to fly back down. The only thing that I can compare it to is riding down a long and large wave at Huntington Beach when I lived there.

At the top, where the road ends in a hill full of boulders, I have a full view of Diamond Valley Lake. Total time, for me (but maybe not for you): between fifteen and seventeen minutes. However . . . should you wish MORE exertion . . . turn around, resist the temptation to fly down back to the bottom and instead, slow down and go up the first right up ANOTHER HILL—it is called Peak St. It is ANOTHER stand up and pedal with all your might scenario! This one is another four or five minutes. The road ends at a private gate. Total time now: about twenty-one minutes.

Once, riding my Huffy ten speed (around 1994) I crashed—like all bicycle crashes, it was quite ugly. I had actually slowed down considerably to maybe ten or twelve miles per hour, as I approached the cross-street at the bottom. I didn’t notice the sand. I lost control when I hit the sand and flew off, smacking my head on the street, rolling and sliding on the asphalt, right in front of an elderly, Canadian woman, who showed concern for me. “But you’re all right? But you’re all right, eh?” I was a mess. I had no idea. “I don’t know”, I said from the ground. “Let’s see . . .” I got up and found that I could walk. The bicycle was fine! Those Huffy bicycles were tough! So, I rode home. Foolishly, I had not worn a shirt that day and so had slid on the asphalt without one. The result must have looked shocking because I noticed as I rode to my then home in Hemet, that cars would pass me, but the drivers and passengers were sticking out their heads and surveying me. As I rounded the last corner for home, a group of people looked at me. One said, “And he STILL got up!” Another torturous block and I was home. I entered the garage and put away the bicycle. As I walked in, heading for the bathroom, I shouted to my wife, “Don’t look, honey!” She gasped when she saw me. I disrobed, turned on the shower, got in and nearly passed out from the pain. I found later that my head had struck the ground so hard that the collision had cracked my bike helmet to the length of two and a half inches all the way through. That would have been my head.

Should you require, as I do, a complete forty-five-minute workout, you may not go back home or to the truck. Instead, you make a right at the bottom and continue until you reach Pageant St., and make a right. Immediately it is time to stand up and pedal (of course!). This one takes an additional seven minutes to the top of the parking lot. Currently, it is ‘closed’.. In reality it is not closed at all. I have seen workmen improving the parking lot, and the gate has been open, although ‘closed’ to traffic. The workers say nothing to me as I huff and puff my way past them and cross the lot to the top. Upon reaching the top I initially returned by way of the road leading down to Dartmouth St. However, as that required stopping at the locked gate and walking my bike (and breaking the momentum) around the post, I decided to return the way I came. It is as exhilarating and fun!

-Peter Putnam

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